


How The Light Gets In

by McMoni



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Bromance, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28632564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McMoni/pseuds/McMoni
Summary: The Machine spits out two numbers at the same time, forcing Finch to take a more active role in the field. But things rarely go as planned, and when his life is put in danger, Reese must race against time to get him back alive. Set in season 2. Friendship, hurt/comfort, angst.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. We're all cracked...

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm back with a new, longer story. It's already complete and beta'ed, so updates should be fairly regular.
> 
> The story is set around mid-season 2; it's a Reese-Finch adventure, with tons of angst, action, bromance and drama and, well, me being me, also quite a bit of Reese-whump and hurt/comfort, like my previous works.
> 
> It's rated T due to some swearing and blood/injury; but it's canon-typical violence (John does tend to get shot quite often...) and, well, Fusco swears a lot when he has to put up with Team Machine...
> 
> A quick note before we begin. This story has been in the making for a very, very long time (years, no kidding).
> 
> It took me ages to write it, and even more time to find the courage to have someone else read it (my wonderful friend and invaluable betareader, DancingInTheDark8 to whom goes my deepest gratitude!). Still, I waited almost another year before I finally decided it was time to share it (and, trust me, I'm still terribly nervous about posting it!). A heartfelt thank you goes to Ninjadevil2000 for her encouragement and help.
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing it; and I sincerely hope you'll enjoy reading it just as much.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you guys think about it; if you feel like it, drop me a line. It'll make my day.
> 
> Disclaimers: obviously, I don't own anyhting. I'm just playing around a bit with the characters, and I promise I'll give them back (relatively) unarmed when I'm done.

* * *

The air that morning was cold and damp. The persistent, pouring rain of the previous days had finally abated to some extent, giving way to an icy drizzle, but the greyness of the day did nothing to help Reese's foul mood. Despite the very early hour, the streets were already crawling with people hurrying towards their jobs in the cold morning hours but John paid them no heed. He was lost in his thoughts – sullen and morose as they were.

They had lost a number, earlier that week. A young woman, Martha Ellis, who had found herself in a financially tight spot and had let herself get involved in corporate espionage. But it had taken John too long to figure out the whole situation – they had focused their suspicions in the wrong direction. By the time Reese had realized that Martha's alcoholic ex- husband was actually not the threat and that instead it was someone in the firm she worked for that wanted her dead, it had been too late.

He hadn't arrived in time and now she was dead. _Martha Ellis_. His brain refused to let go of her name, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

It wasn't the first loss since he had begun working with Finch, and John was experienced enough to know very well that it wouldn't be the last. It was inevitable, really; even with Finch's apparently bottomless resources, Reese's skills and the Detectives' help, there was just so much they could do, and they were bound to fail from time to time.

In truth, statistically speaking _, rationally speaking_ , their success rate was remarkable, as a small, analytical part of his brain sometimes reminded him. Even more so, considering the scarce information they had for each number to begin with, and the fact that they needed to lay low while working the cases. They saved _most_ of them, stopped _most_ of the violent crimes, prevented _most_ of the otherwise fated tragedies; some losses along the way were inevitable.

Yet, every life they couldn't save – _he_ couldn't save – was a failure that weighed heavily upon him and, each and every time it happened, he couldn't help but spend hours, or days, wondering whether he could have prevented it. _Brooding over it_ , his old handlers would have said. Of course, back then, the death of the target was nearly always the intended outcome and not, like now, a tragic fatality. But it didn't change the bottom line - mulling over past missions, or worrying about contingent casualties was never encouraged anyway.

But the nagging doubts had always been there, and still were, now more than ever. Maybe there was something he could've done differently, something that might have changed the outcome. Maybe he had failed to notice something relevant that might have saved the number's life. Maybe…

He sighed, pausing in front the usual kiosk to buy breakfast. Kara would have laughed at him, had she seen him now. She would have found his gloomy musing ridiculous and would have wasted no time in making fun of him for that.

With all the lives he had taken, did it make any sense to feel guilty about this? Yet another death to add to his list, more blood on his hands. But did it really matter? John felt it did. He didn't know why – there wasn't a reasonable explanation – but it did.

He handed the vendor a few bills and coins and grabbed the donuts and the steaming paper cups. A familiar smell reached his nose – coffee, tea, pastries – a pleasant, reassuring smell he associated with the mornings in the Library, with numbers, with Finch.

He frowned as his thoughts turned to the older man. Harold had read right into him in the last few days, into his stony silence. He had read into him, yes, and also listened to everything that had transpired in the last couple of days, after he had found Martha's body and realized he had failed to save her. And so, Finch being Finch, he had tried to talk with John. Awkward and circumspect and clearly uncomfortable, but he had tried nonetheless, but what was there to be said? They'd been too slow, he'd been too late and she was dead. Nothing more than that, and so the previous night the ex-op had stonewalled Harold's latest attempt and left the Library quite abruptly, escaping from a conversation that would have been grievous and totally useless. He was sorry now for his brusque departure – it was uncalled for, rude perhaps, and Harold didn't deserve it, but he had no intention whatsoever to talk about that. The sooner Finch understood that, the better for both of them.

He finally turned the corner to the Library side entrance and let himself in, juggling the cups and box in his hands to close the metal gate.

Finch was already there, despite the very early hour, as he discovered as soon as he reached the stairs thanks to the immediate appearance of Bear on the top landing. The Malinois was enthusiastic to see his alpha and hurried to greet him, wagging his tail with a high-pitched whine. A quick pat on the head, a few well- chosen words of praise, then Reese proceeded to the main area of the Library. Harold's welcome was definitely less enthusiastic - it bordered instead on the wary side if the considering scrutiny he was subjected to was of any indication.

The ex-op offered him the tea – as peace offerings went, it was probably a little poor, but Finch accepted it with a small, tentative nod of his head and a hint of a smile.

"We got a new number?"

The older man nodded, taking a sip from the cup. "Two, to be exact."

John leaned back on the wall, frowning. It wouldn't be the first time the Machine gave them more than one number together, but it was admittedly quite unusual.

"Any connections between them?"

"Nothing immediately obvious," Harold replied, shaking his head, "but I've just done a preliminary background check." He got up, pictures in hand, and proceeded to tape them to the glass board.

"Robert Carson," he said, pointing towards the first picture, depicting a forty-something dark-haired man, "software engineer, works in an IT company. His digital footprint is virtually nil." Then he tapped his index on the second photo – this time, a man of indefinable age wearing a camo cap. "Eddie Harper. Switched four jobs in the last six months, ranging from delivery service to bartending, which is his current occupation."

Reese studied the pictures, pondering the problem of having to keep track of two people at the same time. He obviously couldn't follow them both, and he was reluctant to have Finch tail one of them – the older man's previous attempts in the field hadn't been particularly successful. He didn't have the necessary training or experience. Besides, after the kidnapping, he doubted the older man would even consider taking a more active part in helping the number – it was still too soon. Maybe one of the Detectives?

"Who do you think is more urgent?" he settled to ask.

"Hard to say," Harold replied, briefly looking at him, then limped back towards the computer. He sat down and started typing. "We just know that the danger related to the number we're given is imminent, but we don't know how much."

"Right. So? Where do we start?" Reese inquired, discreetly dropping half of his donut on the floor for Bear who happily laid into it without hesitation.

"Well, I'd like to do some more research before we begin," Finch slowly said. His eyes were still glued to the monitor, but a minute tightening of his mouth was a clear sign that the impromptu pastry-based feeding hadn't gone unnoticed and that it was definitely not appreciated. "Maybe there _is_ a connection between the two numbers after all and finding it out would undoubtedly be of great help."

He turned his attention to the stack of papers and folders next to him and extracted an envelope, then handed it to Reese. "It'll take me a couple of hours, probably less. In the meantime, could you bring this to Detective Carter?"

The ex -op accepted the proffered folder. "What is it?"

"Something on one of her most recent cases," Harold replied succinctly. "She might find it useful."

As answers went, it wasn't one of the most informative ones Finch had ever given him, but it was enough. John trusted the older man's judgement.

He slid the envelope in the inside pocket of his coat and left to run the errand.

* * *

It wasn't hard for Reese to find Carter – she was at a café close to her apartment, where she sometimes had breakfast with her kid before he left for school and she headed for the precinct. He spotted them at the usual table by the window, talking and laughing, and settled to wait, unwilling to interrupt their daily routine.

Then, as soon as Taylor left the café, he got inside and slid into the booth she still occupied.

"Good morning, Detective," he rasped, and signaled for a coffee refill.

Carter didn't look particularly surprised to see him – by now he guessed she had got used to him popping up uninvited at the most various times and places and took it in stride, definitely more than Fusco did. She did send him a studying look, though, her eyes slightly narrowed, but didn't say anything.

He waited until the waitress brought them coffee, then handed Carter the envelope.

"From Finch."

She took it with a nod of thanks, immediately sliding the papers out of the envelope and started reading the content. He let his gaze wander around the café as she perused the file, scanning his surroundings more out of habit than real necessity. The small establishment was packed, almost all the booths occupied and a dozen people at the counter. They all looked so ordinary, so _normal_. He fleetingly wondered what he and Carter looked like to the casual observer. Colleagues having breakfast together? Friends? Lovers, maybe? He blinked at the unexpected, unbidden thought and turned his eyes back on the Detective, just in time to see her nodding again – this time in satisfaction – and placing the papers back in the envelope.

"I take it it's useful," John commented, fighting the urge to fidget. Sitting down in a café was the last thing he wanted to do right now – he wanted to be up and about and working a new case.

"It is," she agreed. "Thank Finch on my behalf."

The scrutinizing stare was back, and John forced his expression to remain blank and his fingers not to drum on the table.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" she finally asked, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen upon them.

He stiffened at the unexpected question. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on John, do you think I'm blind? Or stupid?" Joss snorted. She kept her voice low, mindful of the fact that they were in a public place where everybody could hear them, but her tone was forceful. "First you ask Fusco to pull a file on a guy, a couple of days later the ex-wife turns up dead, and the day after that the usual, mysterious _vigilante_ goes on a rampage." She gave a pointed look to his right hand holding the cup, the knuckles scraped and so deeply bruised to the point of discoloration. "Are you going to tell me this is all a coincidence?"

He kept his eyes on his coffee, refusing to answer, and she correctly interpreted his silence. "Like I thought."

A sigh.

"So. Martha - she was one of your projects, right?" Carter asked, her tone considerably softer. "What happened?"

He frowned at the kindness in her voice – it was undeserved, misplaced. It sounded like she was somehow sorry for him and it felt wrong. He wasn't the victim here. Not the perpetrator either, maybe, but definitely not without guilt.

"I was too late," he intoned, struggling to keep a blank façade. "When I got there, she was dead. It wasn't the ex-husband, though. He wasn't involved at all."

Silence fell again – Carter was obviously waiting for him to elaborate further, but the ex-op had nothing more to add on the matter. He brought the cup to his lips and took another sip of a coffee he didn't really want, feigning a composure he didn't really feel.

"This is all you have to say?" she scoffed after a while, a mixture of disbelief and outrage coloring her tone, when it became clear that he was done with the subject.

A shrug was his only answer, and it incensed her. She slammed her own cup on the table with such vehemence that some of the coffee spilled out.

"Really, John? This is not a game – I have a murder case to solve! I'm not going to let a crime go unpunished just because you don't want to talk!"

"Unsolved maybe," he quietly corrected her, his voice dark, "but not unpunished." _Definitely not unpunished_. "And trust me, I know it's not a game."

She closed her eyes briefly, whether in an effort to remain calm or out of despair was yet to be seen. "What did you do? What happened to Martha's killer?"

"I made sure he won't harm anyone again." It wasn't the answer to her question, and it was blatantly obvious.

"You can't – You can't do that! You can't go around and kill people because you think they deserve it! For God's sake, do you even realize I'm a cop?" Carter asked, furious.

"I never said I killed him," he cut her off, apparently unperturbed.

She stared at him, taken aback. He had phrased his denial in a rather ambiguous way and they both knew it. "But _did_ you?" She finally settled to ask.

"As I said, I took care of the matter."

Carter shook her head, annoyed, but accepted defeat and let the matter drop, not before throwing a warning his way, though. "You know I'll have to keep investigating on this, right?"

The ex-op gave a single nod in response but said nothing. He felt his cellphone vibrate in his pocket, signaling him an incoming text, and quickly read it. Then, he looked up to relay the message.

"Finch says he'll provide you with some evidence on the murder."

Another sigh, another shake of her head, but the annoyance on her face had dampened to some degree. "You have to be careful, John."

He forced out a small smile he didn't feel. "Duly noted."

"I'm serious. _More_ careful than this," the Detective insisted, grabbing his wrist and keeping it pinned to the table, the discolored knuckles in plain sight between them. Her grip was tight enough to be almost uncomfortable and her eyes bore into his, intense, unrelenting. Demanding his attention. "We all fail sometime and we have to live with it. You're no exception."

"Yeah, that's rather obvious," he retorted and this time he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

She didn't reply right away. Instead, she kept her gaze on him, her eyes slightly narrowed, studying him, pondering her next words.

"It wasn't your fault," she finally told him, her tone quiet, soft. The grip on his hand relented, but her hand stayed there, the touch morphing into something gentler, comforting.

He jerked up on his feet as soon as the words left her mouth, clearly intent on refusing to acknowledge her statement, and tossed a couple of bills on the table. "I have to go."

"Yeah, right. Thanks for the file," the Detective said, drumming a finger over the folder. She hesitated, then called him back. "John. Stay out of trouble."

Her concern was plain to see and the openness surprised Reese. It wasn't just the obvious worry about what the ex-op might or might not do, or about the boundaries he had no qualms breaking. No, it was more than that. She was worried about _him_. His freedom, his wellbeing. It was somehow disconcerting, yet so very _Carter_.

Reese allowed another smile to pop up – this time it felt a bit more genuine, even if still pained. The first sincere smile in days. "Always."

* * *

"You knew she would want to discuss the murder, didn't you, Finch?" Reese asked as soon as he got back to the Library. He tried and failed to keep accusation and annoyance out of his tone.

"Well, as you just said, it's a murder we're talking about, and she works Homicide. It was predictable enough that she'd ask questions," Finch replied stiffly.

Reese frowned. He couldn't shake the suspicion that it wasn't a coincidence that Harold had wanted him to deliver the file to Carter in person instead of sending it to her via mail. It wouldn't be too surprising after all.

It had already happened a couple of times, especially after a particularly gruesome or ill-fated case ended badly. Finch had tried to make him _talk_ about it, apparently under the misguided impression that venting or opening up about what had transpired might somehow help John.

It never did, though, not in John's book at least. _Talking_ only served to dredge up bad memories and awkward feelings and didn't change things anyway. Thinking and analyzing were far better options, for they helped single out and determine what mistakes had been made and which strategy would have been a better choice and what steps could have led to a more satisfying conclusion. Which was more than talking could ever accomplish, in John's opinion.

He had tried to explain it all to Finch, but the older man wouldn't be deterred. And this time, having failed at making John talk, he had probably thought Carter might have better luck with it.

Or maybe he was just being paranoid, he thought.

"It's her job, Mr. Reese, something you already knew when you chose to involve her in our activities," the older man went on, breaking through John's train of thoughts. "She'll always ask questions about our activities I'm afraid, and voice her opinions too." He finally turned towards Reese, pinning him with a piercing glare. "For the record, today I tend to agree with Detective Carter's judgement."

John felt that, after all, a change of subject was in order. Completely ignoring Finch's last statement, he steered the conversation towards a safer direction.

"Did you find anything useful on the numbers?"

A barely concealed sigh, and Harold reverted his attention back to the monitor.

"Mmmh, yes. Mr. Harper, here," he began, pointing at the camo-cap guy. "It hasn't been his best period. He's having trouble keeping a job – alcohol problems, maybe, judging by the DUI charges in more than an occasion. Has several debts, he's been evicted and he's months behind on alimony to the ex-wife who, incidentally, is marrying another man in a few weeks. And," he added, turning to look at Reese, "it seems like he's bought a weapon. Illegally."

"Doesn't sound very promising," the ex-op replied with a grimace.

"Not at all, especially considering the fact that it's not immediately clear who the intended victim is."

"Supposing he's actually planning to shoot someone," Reese objected, earning himself a disbelieving look from Finch. "Maybe he's plotting a robbery, or it's just for show," he shrugged. "The other one?"

"There's not much on Mr. Carson," Finch replied with a frown. "He's very careful with his digital information, which, if you ask me, should be a sound habit for anybody working in the IT, so it doesn't really mean much. Everything is neat and spotless - bank account and emails. No social networks, no fidelity programs, no online shopping."

"Basically, we got nothing," John summarized.

"Well, there is something interesting, actually. There will be a, ah, _convention_ on cyber-security, and he's going to participate. Apparently, attendance to training courses is mandatory every two years in the firm he works for."

Reese blinked, perplexed at Harold's satisfied tone. He couldn't see what Finch's point was. "And so…?" he prompted after a brief pause.

"Well, so we know where he will be for the next three days. It'll be easier to tail him. Besides, it's a closed seminar, invitation-only so to speak, so presumably it should be easy to investigate on potential threats arising there, since all people attending are registered in a data-base I have already hacked."

Well, maybe it was an advantage, knowing in advance that the IT engineer was going to be at the convention all day long. On the other hand, though, John knew he was going to have to multitask since the Machine had given them two numbers. He'd need to keep track of both men at the same time and this might potentially mean that he'd have to come and go from the convention center several times during the few days, at the risk of someone noticing his unusual activity, even more so if the number of participants was relatively small.

Again, he considered the option of involving one of the Detectives, pondering the pros and cons of such a choice. Having one of them tail one of the numbers might make his job easier – but he wasn't sure it was doable. For starters, they both had a day job, and their support was often recalcitrant, especially in case of potentially day-long assignments. Besides, Fusco was deep with HR right now, working on a little side project on John's request. Carter, on the other hand, was going to be busy testifying in Court in the next few days, this making her schedule unpredictable at best. Not a good premise for a successful stake out.

He gave the thought some further consideration, then he decided against involving Carter or Fusco. For the moment at least, the best option was to work on the numbers without the Detectives' help, at least until he figured out what the threat was. Once that was determined, if need be, he would perhaps ask for assistance.

He focused his attention back on Finch, ready to plan their next moves.

"Mmmh. Well, first of all I'll need to be registered into the convention, and I'm sure you'll have no problem doing that," he began, his tone practical and his mind already tackling the next problem. He was about to ask for Harper's address when Finch cut him off.

"Of course adding a participant in the data-base is no problem," the billionaire said, dismissing the problem with a quick wave of his hand. "But I think you should focus on Harper for now."

"Finch, you said it yourself, we don't know how urgent the threats are," Reese objected with a frown. "Harper seems more dangerous, but we can't just ignore the other guy."

"And we will not ignore him," Harold replied. "I'm just saying that we might not need you to go undercover at the convention."

The ex-op stared at Finch, more perplexed than ever. Surely, he couldn't be thinking about asking one of the Detectives to spend a couple of days at an IT meet-up.

"I doubt that Carter or even Fusco could be convinced to-"

Finch turned towards him – swiveling his whole upper body in his typical manner – and fixed his stare on him.

"I wasn't talking about them either, Mr. Reese. I meant _me_."

John blinked, taken aback. It wasn't what he had expected, and truth to be told, he was less than thrilled at the idea. Necessity had put Harold in the field before – for starters, all the previous occasions in which the Machine had spit out more than one number, but also during other cases when Reese had found himself in a tight spot, Finch had been forced to leap into action. All those instances were clearly etched in John's memory, for the outcome had often been alarming, if not outright dangerous for the older man. That time with four numbers who had witnessed the congressman's son's accident, Harold had been involved in an explosion. Then the identity theft case, when he had been drugged with MDMA. And then the kidnapping by Root, which was, albeit for different reasons, still a sore spot for both men.

No, the more he thought about the prospect, the less he liked it.

"It's not necessary, Harold," he finally replied, careful. "I can take care of both."

"No, you can't," the billionaire retorted, apparently miffed at his denial. "Unless you haven't noticed, you're not ubiquitous."

"It's doable," the ex-op persisted, disregarding his own doubts on the matter. "We'll just monitor both and intervene first in the most urgent."

"And how are you supposed to tail two people at once? Carson will stay at the convention center for hours – I'll be able to hack into his mobile and laptop during the conference while you follow Harper," Finch pressed.

Reese shook his head, annoyed at the other man's apparent lack of concern about going undercover. "It could be dangerous – we don't even know if he's a victim or not! You shouldn't take such a risk. We'll find another way."

Harold turned back towards the monitor, the stiff, defiant set of his shoulders a clear tell of his unwillingness to be talked out of it. "It's the most logical choice, Mr. Reese. Besides," he added, "it'll be an IT conference. In such an environment, I'm more likely to be inconspicuous. You'd stick out like a sore thumb."

Reese rubbed a hand over his face, trying to no avail to keep calm. How could Finch not see it? He nervously paced the room, unable to stay still. The edginess he had felt before at the café was back in full vengeance – and the contrast with Finch's rigid stance was painfully obvious. He made an effort to keep his temper in check.

"This is my part of the job," he insisted vehemently. "You going undercover - that's an unnecessary risk and you know it."

"It's not, Mr. Reese. If we want to help them both, we have to!"

And then Reese snapped.

"What, you afraid I'm gonna lose another one?" The words were out before he could stop them and he regretted them as soon as they were out, biting and cruel as they were. It was unfair, uncalled for. Harold had never blamed him for the people he failed to save or the mistakes he made, not even when he should have.

A heavy silence fell over them, only broken by Bear's high-pitched whine - the Malinois having obviously caught on the tension between his masters.

"I'm sorry," the ex-op finally said, embarrassed by his outburst. He couldn't see Finch's face, for the older man was still facing the laptop, but it wasn't hard to picture his expression – the frown, the tightened lips. "But I still think it's not a good idea."

"Be as it may, Mr. Reese, my decision is taken," Harold replied. His tone was quiet, soft almost, but the firmness was unmistakable. "The conference begins today, I'll go there this afternoon. I'll lay low, find out something more about Mr. Carson and hopefully learn what the threat is. Then we'll plan the next steps."

Stated like that, John had to admit it sounded reasonable enough. Not completely riskless, maybe, but prudent within reason. Yet, as he went back to his nervous pacing around the room, he realized he couldn't shake a bad feeling about it. But arguing was pointless, that much was clear: Finch wouldn't be steered. The best Reese could do was get things done quickly with Harper and take over as soon as possible with the software engineer case.

"Won't you run the risk of walking into some old acquaintance of yours?" John asked, his voice low and even. "It's an IT conference, you might see people you studied or worked with… _before_."

"Oh, no, not likely," Harold waved a hand to dismiss the thought. "The convention is a minor one, not the kind of event where you might find M.I.T. graduates. It'll be mostly low-level software engineers working in small businesses." He cocked his head to the side and added, "besides, I checked the names of the people attending, and there's no one I know."

"Unless they are using false names, Finch."

"Fair enough. But I'm telling you, it's unlikely. You should see the list of lectures planned – it's short of appalling."

"Either way, keep your eyes open," Reese instructed him. He didn't like Harold's plan, not at all, but if he had no chance to dissuade him, he could at least make sure the older man was as prepared as possible. "Lay low," he went on, "and, as _appalling_ as they might be, always listen at least to a small part of what's being said in the lectures you'll attend, so that should someone ask you a question about them afterwards, you'll manage to come up with something pertinent."

"Mr. Reese, I do know how to keep a low profile," Harold retorted in mild exasperation. "As a matter of fact, I consider myself quite an expert by now. Do I need to remind you that you're not the only one with several false identities?"

But Reese ignored the objection and went on with his laundry list of advice. "Keep track of people getting in and out in and whenever you get in a room, always be aware of all the possible exits and furniture that might offer cover if need be."

At the last statement, Harold turned to gape at Reese. "John, it's an IT convention. I don't know what kind of conferences you ever attended to, but in my experience, these kinds of events don't involve getting shot at or jumping from windows or whatever it is it usually happens to you."

The ex-op merely shrugged, stopping his pacing in front of the glass board where the numbers' pictures were pinned. He absently stared at the photos without really seeing them, his mind busy mulling over the plan. "Better come prepared, Finch. Besides, we don't know if this guy is in danger, if he's a threat, or even if there actually is a connection between the convention and the dangerous situation he's involved in, but we can't rule it out. Where will it be held, anyway?"

"Congress Plaza Hotel. The organizers have reserved the whole first three floors for the talks."

"Mmmh. Download the schematics of the building on your phone-"

"Mr. Reese, I hardly think that-"

"-and keep your earbud on, Harold," John concluded as if he had never been interrupted. "Any problems, I'll get there as fast as I can."

"Don't worry, Mr. Reese, I'll just stay back, watch him and collect some data, and when we'll have sufficient intel, you'll step in."

John nodded reluctantly, unconvinced by what he thought to be a sketchy plan relying on fate far too much, but said nothing. After one last look to the pictures, he stepped back from the glass board, ready to leave. The sooner he got to work on Eddie Harper's case and put an end to it, the less time Finch would have to be on his own.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second part. As always, a huge thanks goes to my faithful beta and friends DancingInTheDark85 and ninjadevil2000.

**Chapter 2**

It turned out he needn't have worried about keeping a low profile, or so Finch thought as he let his gaze wander around the large conference room he was currently in. Upon arriving to the hotel where the convention was held, he had immediately registered himself in the hall, and had been given a tag to wear, a leaflet with the lectures and workshops planned for the day and instructions on how to reach them. So now there he was, occupying one of the seats in the last row. Thanks to the pitched floor, the rows in the back were higher than the ones in the front. A perfect, strategic position, which prevented any nosy, unwanted snooping from behind his shoulders while giving him a perfectly clear view of most of the audience – or, at least, a clear view of their backs and their screens.

Most of them in fact had brought their laptops with them and were apparently absorbed in their work or more likely pretending to be. Others were happily tapping away at their smartphones and tablets, and one of the participants even had his headphones on. Either way, no one seemed to be paying particular attention to the lecturer, who went on and on, totally unruffled by the total lack of interest showed by his audience. In Finch's view, it was for the better – this way, he would be able to work undisturbed on his own computer, carrying out research on the number or other likely threats, without drawing any undue attention on himself.

It had taken him a few minutes to locate the number – he was sitting three rows ahead of him, on the left – too distant for Finch to try and force pair his smartphone, but he might have a chance to hijack his laptop Bluetooth or wi-fi connection and force his virtual way into his hard-disk. Carson had his computer opened and powered up in front of him, but, for as much as Harold could see, he seemed not to be using it and appeared to be staring at the lecturer.

Harold tapped a few lines of code on his laptop, aiming to disable Carson's firewall and be given free access to the terminal. It wasn't a complex operation, but it took some time to complete, and while he waited for the computer to carry through the task he focused his attention to the talk. As minutes ticked by, a frown worked its way on Finch's brow – it was no surprise no one was listening to it. The subject was uninteresting at best, the supporting data provided presented in a rather unclear fashion and the lecturer himself seemed to be bored to death by his own words, if the monotonous, flat tone was of any indication.

A message popped up on Finch's laptop, diverting his thoughts from the talk and back on the job at hand and his scowl deepened as he perused the text. Apparently, his code had failed to pierce through Carson's firewall – it was not unconceivable, considering he had tried just a basic break-in, but not so common either; it usually worked on most systems. It was clear that Carson was particularly scrupulous when it came to cyber security, and Harold fleetingly wondered why. Was it just the conscientiousness of a thorough IT engineer or was there a deeper, maybe darker reason?

Harold threw a subtle look in the number's direction, trying to gauge his reaction. Carson was still staring ahead, apparently unperturbed and Finch took it as a good sign that he had not noticed his attempt at security breach. He redirected his attention to his laptop, his mind already busy devising a stronger but equally undetectable attack, and before long he found himself so absorbed in the task he hadn't even realized the talk was nearing its merciful end.

Just as he was making the final adjustments to his hacking trick, the lecturer ended his speech. The people in the audience lost no time in getting up and leaving the room – most of them had evidently been waiting impatiently for the break – and Finch had to hurry to pack his laptop and get out in order not to lose Carson in the herd of nerds.

There were several activities planned for the last part of the afternoon, after the coffee break – participants were free to choose which ones to attend to – and Harold's plan was to stick close to Carson and follow him to whatever event he picked for the remainder of the day.

As he was wending his way towards the break hall, a voice sounded in his ear.

" _Finch. How's the conference going? You having fun with your geeky friends?_ "

"Hardly, Mr. Reese," Harold huffed in response, careful to keep his tone low. "The talks are even worse than I had anticipated, and Mr. Carson is over-zealous when it comes to cyber security."

" _Don't tell me you haven't been able to break into his devices, Harold,_ " came the immediate reply. John's tone was teasing as he feigned surprise. " _Perhaps you found an even more private person than you are – that's unbelievable._ "

"Very funny," Harold retorted, getting close to the refreshments table. He scanned the hot drinks – no tea, obviously, just coffee and a jug of an indefinable dark liquid that was probably supposed to pass as hot chocolate.

Forgoing the latter, he went for a cup of the former and made a face as he took a tentative sip. "Refreshments are rather lacking, too."

" _What, no sencha green? That's outrageous,_ " the ex-op went on with his teasing. " _You really should file a complaint to the organizers of the convention._ "

Finch resisted the urge of rolling his eyes as he discreetly abandoned his full cup on a nearby table, and settled next to the counter where the biscuit trays laid. He had no interest whatsoever on the pastries, which looked as bad as the coffee tasted, but a huge potted plant nearby gave him a good cover – a perfect place to spy on the other participants without giving the impression he was actually hiding from view.

" _But what's your impression of him_?" Reese suddenly asked, his tone reverting to seriousness.

"Hard to tell," Harold slowly replied in a considering tone. "He certainly looks very…passive, so to speak."

A beat. " _I guess you mean bored_."

"For lack of a better term, yes, he's bored, but it's not just that," Harold explained, pretending to look at his phone as a couple of thirty-something engineers wandered closer to the biscuit table, blabbering about an RPG online game. He waited until they walked away, then went on, "he's not even pretending to be listening and this is supposed to be his field of expertise. But he's not even doing anything else, like working, either. "

" _It doesn't strike me as surprising, Finch. You keep telling me how awful the convention is,"_ the ex-op reasoned _. "Besides, he's on a mandatory training course. It's not like it's his choice to attend to the event – he's there just because his employer told him to. Nobody enjoys that kind of stuff_."

"I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Reese," Harold replied with a small smile and let the amusement creep in his voice. "No mandatory training courses for you," he added, eliciting a chuckle from the other man. "And what about your number?"

" _Well...he's working his shift at the bar and he seems to be getting along fine with his boss and the patrons._ "

Finch frowned despite the encouraging premise. He felt a _but_ somewhere between the lines.

"That's good," he commented carefully.

Reese's next sentence proved his caution was justified. " _But I'm pretty sure he is carrying_. _Or, at least he was on his way to the job. He might have left the weapon in his locker now that he's serving at the counter, but still…_ "

"That's a little less good."

" _You don't say_. _Well, he'll be on shift for another few hours at least. I'll keep an eye on him_."

"Very well, Mr. Reese," Harold concurred. The crowd was beginning to thin and he realized the coffee break was almost over. For a couple of panicked seconds, he couldn't seem to locate Carson anywhere, but then he spotted him again, heading towards the same conference room they had been occupying earlier. Apparently, he had chosen the lecture on online scams over the one on 'database scaling for easier management'. _Oh dear_. "I have to go," he murmured to John, hurrying in the same direction. He had every intention to sit closer to the number this time. "I have another lecture to attend to."

" _Have fun, Finch,"_ Reese said and the older man could hear the smile in his voice.

Harold scoffed in response, and took a seat two rows behind Carson.

"Unlikely, Mr. Reese," he quietly said with a sigh, extracting his phone from the pocket and setting to work on pairing Carson's iPhone. "Unlikely."

* * *

John stared at the backdoor entrance of the bar, waiting for Eddie Harper to get out. A few minutes ago he had spotted another young man getting inside the establishment from the back and reappearing behind the counter, evidently as Harper's replacement for the last shift, so he figured the number had to be about to leave.

A few minutes later, his guess proved to be correct. Harper stepped outside the back, shivering in the cold air as he turned up the collar of his sports jacket and headed towards the motorbike parked in the small, messy yard in the rear of the pub.

As he hopped on the bike, the jacket slid up a bit – a tiny movement, and it only lasted a second, but it was enough to confirm what John had feared. Harper _was_ carrying a gun.

He had no time to dwell on it, though, because as soon as he had his helmet on, the number stepped on the gas and sped away from the filthy alley.

It wasn't easy to follow him by car - the bike slid through the traffic almost effortlessly, swiftly avoiding jams and moving past slower vehicles – but Reese was no amateur when it came to tailings, and managed to keep up with Harper without being spotted. It had been a long afternoon - the stakeout boring and uneventful, leaving him with much too time to think and worry about Harold's own involvement in the double-number case, and the ex-op was grateful for the welcome respite from forced inactivity.

After a few minutes he noticed Harper was slowing down and let a few more vehicles interpose between himself and the motorbike. They were still a few blocks from the number's apartment, and he seemed to be looking for someone as he proceeded slower and slower.

He finally stopped – still a couple of streets from his apartments - and Reese parked at a safe distance. He scanned their surroundings, trying to understand what could have caught Harper's interest. There wasn't much in the side road he had chosen for his stop – a run-down pub, not dissimilar to the one in which he worked, a coffee kiosk, a small market apparently closed down, and aside from a couple of twenty-something dodgy-looking young men leaning on the scraped brick wall in a corner, there wasn't anyone else around.

Harper had killed the engine but had yet to get off his bike. He extracted his mobile from his pocket and looked at something on it, but he wasn't evidently calling or texting anyone, or John's phone would have notified him. Harper looked up once and glanced fleetingly at the two young men in the corner, so quickly that the ex-op might have missed it if he hadn't been watching so closely. Reese frowned as his own gaze fixed on the two men. He had just spared them a perfunctory glance upon parking the car, only to make sure they didn't pose an obvious threat, but now that he knew that they likely were Harper's object of interest, he studied them more carefully. He couldn't see their faces very clearly– one was wearing a baseball cap pulled all the way down to his eyes, while the other one, with a bright yellow Mohawk, was leaning on the wall with his back to Reese, but he determined they must be in their mid-twenties. They were clearly doing something illegal, if their subtle movements and whispered conversation were of any indication – and John had the nagging suspicion that the illegal activity they were engaged in had everything to do with drugs. They weren't very good at that, Reese thought. Acting nonchalant was the first rule when trying to go unnoticed, and they were all but inconspicuous.

His first suspicion was proved right when one of the two – the one with the baseball cap – stuffed something small in his pocket – definitely drugs. Then, after a friendly punch on the other man's shoulder, he walked away.

The action hadn't been lost on Harper. As soon as the buyer was far away enough, he slid off his motorbike, stuffed his helmet in the back compartment and headed towards the dealer.

Reese frowned, observing the scene. He was expecting to see him buy a fix, but instead they seemed to be talking, and then arguing about something. The ex-op tapped on his smartphone, activating remotely the microphone on Harper's cell phone, but to no avail. There was no sound and Reese realized with a curse that his number must have left the device in the motorbike trunk together with the helmet.

The discussion seemed to be getting heated and Reese debated whether to intervene before things got too out of hand – he hadn't forgotten Harper's hidden gun, and he found himself mentally willing the number not to pull it out – wishful thinking probably, since Harper had apparently got there with the sole purpose of picking up a fight, but still…

All hopes were dashed when Harper, with a quick motion, extracted the weapon from his back and pointed it at the pusher's head, who was now trapped between the brick wall and the armed man. As much as Reese didn't really care about the drug dealer's fate, he felt it was time to step in. A resolve that was strengthened by the sudden reappearance of the other kid.

The ex-op had no idea why the pusher's friend had come back – maybe the Mohawk guy had managed to send him a S.O.S. text, or maybe it was just a fluke – but it didn't matter much. Baseball Cap was armed, too, and the current situation could only deteriorate with his reappearance.

John strode towards them, drawing his own gun. The three men were engaged in some sort of standstill – Harper pointing a gun in the dealer's face, the baseball cap kid pointing his weapon at Harper like they were in a badly written crime drama. Reese felt he would have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the whole situation, hadn't it been so dire.

"Hey!" he shouted as he approached them.

As a momentary distraction, it worked well – both Harper and Baseball Cap lowered their weapons, if only fractionally, but most importantly it had served to divert their attention from each other. In a fraction of second Reese was on them and lost no time in taking advantage of the confusion. He rammed the gun's butt hard into Harper's side and, as he bended forward howling in pain, John elbowed him in the face. The gun fell on the ground with a clatter as his hands flew to his nose.

A well- placed kick to Baseball Cap's knee sent him sprawled on the dirty pavement, but he was clinging to his weapon for dear life. Reese placed a foot on his wrist forcing him to release the gun and kicked it away as soon as it fell out of his fingers.

Had the dealer been a smart kid, seeing what had happened to both his attacker and his armed friend, he would have stayed still and kept his hands in the air. But, as it turned out, he was all but smart and, as soon as the ex-op turned his attention on his fallen comrade, he thrust his right hand in his pocket to extract a knife.

John's reaction was lightning-fast.

Almost without looking, he aimed at the pusher's knee and placed a shot.

The dealer crumpled to the ground with a shout, grasping his damaged knee.

Reese felt a movement behind him and turned just in time to see Harper scrambling away, a hand pressed on his bleeding face. He was about to stop him when he caught a glimpse of movement with the corner of his eye. Baseball Cap, still on the ground, was crawling ahead in a last-ditch attempt to reach his gun, which lay abandoned next to a garbage can.

Another shot, another busted knee, another howl of pain, and then Reese picked up the weapon from the ground. He turned again, but Harper was already hopping on his bike, helmet off, and wasted no time to speed away. A quick look around revealed no more guns in sight – which meant that Harper had retrieved his before escaping.

"Dammit."

Reese crouched down next to the guy with the Mohawk, then he grabbed the front of his t-shirt and spoke menacingly in his ear. "You don't strike me as particularly clever, but you must've guessed I'm in no mood for kidding. What did that guy want from you?"

Mohawk whimpered something unintelligible, trying to scoot backwards and away from the ex-op, but John didn't let go. If anything, he leaned even closer, towering over the frightened dealer. "I know you're selling shit and I don't give a damn. Just tell me how you know that guy."

"I don't know, I swear, I don't know him," the kid sputtered. Reese shook his head in annoyance – no point in wasting his time with that scumbag. He let him go abruptly, sending him slamming back on the concrete and got up.

He surveyed the scene before his eyes and glanced at his watch, considering his next steps. Making a quick calculation he guessed that Finch was probably still at the talk, so decided against calling him. He fished his phone from his pocket and typed a quick message to the older man, explaining very concisely what had transpired. Then, dialed Carter's number. She answered at the first ring but her response to his call wasn't exactly enthusiastic.

" _John. This better be important – you know I'll be in court tomorrow afternoon, I don't have time._ "

"Carter. Hi to you, too."

A sigh. " _Sorry. This case is driving me nuts, I can't wait until this whole thing is over. But I guess yours isn't a social call, right?_ " she asked in a softer tone.

"It's not," he concurred. "How do you feel about pushers?"

" _Excuse me!"_

A pause.

"I might have walked into a group of punks selling stuff."

_"...and? John, tell me you didn't..."_

"Oh, they're alive and kicking, if that's what you're worried about." He threw them a glance - they were both still sprawled on the dirty pavement of the alley, moaning and whimpering and nursing their broken knees. "Well, alive for sure," he reconsidered after a beat. "Probably not much in the mood for kicking, though."

" _John_."

It was bizarre, he noticed in amusement, how she managed to infuse just one single syllable with that mix of scolding and exasperation – not dissimilar from the tone Finch often used. _They_ _must've_ _compared_ _notes_.

"I'm sending you the address, if you wanna bring 'em in."

" _No, no, now, wait a minute! This is hardly enough,"_ Carter exclaimed, all softness gone from her tone. Now it was more like a mixture of exasperation and annoyance _. "What happened? And I don't want that whole I-just-walked-into-them crap."_

John couldn't help but smile at her terseness, and pondered the most harmless way to phrase his answer. "A guy threatened them with a gun, they got mad, I stepped in before things got ugly," he finally said, not without a certain degree of self-satisfaction. Concise, smooth, truthful. Or, as truthful as it could ever be given the circumstances.

" _Really, John? A random guy shows up with a gun while you're casually walking by? How fortunate_ ," she retorted, dripping sarcasm. He could've sworn she was rolling her eyes. Ok, not so smooth perhaps, he decided. " _You_ _basically prevented a guy from shooting them then did it yourself. Do I dare ask what did you do with him? The wannabe shooter, I mean._ "

"Fortunate indeed," Reese deadpanned. He crouched down again beside the kids and fished their phones out of his pockets, then smashed them on the sidewalk. "And I didn't do anything – he's gone. He still has the gun."

A muttered curse at the other end of the line, an abrupt, loud noise – a door slammed in annoyance maybe - then a resigned sigh. " _Send me the location – I'll see what I can do._ "

"Thank you, Detective. I'm really grateful for your help," he said sweetly. She hung up on him in response.

"That went well," he muttered under his breath, stuffing his phone back in his pocket after sending her the location.

He threw a last glance to the whimpering dealers and turned away, holstering his weapon. They were harmless now, and on their way to getting arrested, so he had no reason to stay. Besides, his real target, Harper, was God knows where and he had to go back to the plan – find him and make sure he wasn't going to get into – or cause - more trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued (soon!)

**Author's Note:**

> ...so? Thoughts, comments, criticism?


End file.
